


A Soft Epilogue

by liminalsmith



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Becca - Freeform, Blood and Injury, F/F, Fix-It, Fuck Canon, Gunshot Wounds, Lexa Lives, Near Death Experiences, Non-Graphic Violence, Storytelling, a lot of blood, because stories matter, fuck you jroth, pramheda, this is fairly explicit about the aftermath of a gsw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-01 15:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10924449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liminalsmith/pseuds/liminalsmith
Summary: Fix-it fic. Canon divergence from 307. Frankly - fuck canon and the two-headed horse it rode in on. This is therapy for me because one year later I'm still not over it.  Lexa lives. Clarke and Lexa have a second chance.Warning: This fic does deal explicitly with *that* scene in 307. Although this story will be going in a very different direction from canon, it is still potentially triggering.I made myself cry in a coffee shop while writing this.





	1. Chapter 1

### Prologue

_Nomon_ tells stories. They almost always begin the same way -

_In the far off long ago, after the world died, and after it remembered how to grow fresh new roots once more, there lived…_

You soak up every word, brave every adventure, nestled close, held safe by the magic of her voice. Sometimes you are included in the stories. These are your favourites. 

Your world dies when you are perhaps five summers old. It dies in the hush of falling snow and quiet sobbing. This is a story you will not tell. 

At the edge of the small clearing where you and _nomon_ live, there is a huge and ancient tree. It must have fallen long ago, but it did not die. Instead its trunk arches as high as your head above the ground, its gnarled roots still cling to the earth at one end, and at the other it rests upon its shattered limbs. Along its length new branches have grown straight up, reaching for the distant sky. You love it with all your fierce young heart. Almost as much as you love your _nomon._

When you are very small she carries you on her hip, her arm wiry and strong around you. Or she slings you on her back as she hunts and you suck your thumb to stay quiet, or cling to her braids until she hisses and grins and scolds you for tugging. As you get bigger she shows you how to move like a shadow between the trees, and how to scrape clean the animal skins for her to cure. They stink, but you still fill with pride at helping. 

At night by the firepit she holds you against her chest and spins stories for you as you watch the sparks fly up into the great black sky. The tree’s enormous silhouette is on the edge of your sleep-blurred vision, becoming mountain ranges, or a resting dragon. You don’t really understand why you live away from the clan, and you are too small to worry overmuch about it. But sometimes you hear her crying in the dark of your shelter, and burrow closer until she quiets, her hand stroking your hair. 

On rare days people from the village visit, carrying news or supplies or to trade for meat or furs or cured hides. Occasionally she trades a story, and you sit clutching your bony knees to your chest and try not to be jealous. 

Once they come with raised voices yelling that she should _stop this madness and come home._ Usually you just regard other people silent and wide-eyed from behind your _nomon’s_ legs. _Go on, say hello,_ she tells you, pushing you forward. And you stutter out some awkward greeting, fail to meet their eyes. Perhaps you attempt to play if there is a child there. But you are good and careful and always remember the one rule she taught you - _never let them see you bleed, goufa._

Alone with _nomon_ you are full to the brim with questions. _Where? How? What? Why?_ But some things you know not to ask. _What happened to nontu? Why don’t we live in the village? What is beyond the River?_

_What is wrong with me?_

You make a friend by accident. Del is not dismayed by your quietness, or the way your eyes seem too old for your face. She is bigger than you and has a gap in her smile where her milk-teeth have started to fall out. She keeps coming back. Perhaps she is broken too somehow. Together you adventure all over your tree. You show her the deep caverns in the leaf-mould beneath its trunk, and scramble all along the high curve of it, hiding and giggling amongst the sharp green smell of its leaves. Del races and jumps and whispers childish secrets, her breath tickling your ears and making you squirm and laugh. She hugs you without reserve and you do not flinch. You are happy. 

~~*~~

_In the far off long ago, after the world died, and after it remembered how to grow fresh new roots…_

You discover you don’t mind sharing your _nomon’s_ stories with Del. 

_Stories are the heart of the clan,_ you tell her proudly, remembering what _nomon_ said once. 

Del just looks perplexed, then sticks her tongue out at you and laughs. 

_Tombom,_ you mutter to yourself at night in time with your pulse. _Tombom, tombom._

_Tombom,_ the earth beneath you answers. 

__

~~*~~

Today you are both brave _gonas,_ like the ones your _nomon_ tells about; like your _nontu_ before he went beyond the River. Over and around, up and down, Del chases you in a crazy scramble, the tree is your battlefield and your refuge. You smell the musk of its bark bruising under your scrabbling feet, the soft moss between your fingers as you grip with your free hand, the other brandishing a stick sword. Del is stronger but you are fast and tricksy. As she dashes below you, you let out a gleeful whoop and leap for her. But you misjudge and your sword-arm scrapes painfully along the jagged place where a branch has broken, leaving a sharp stump behind. You yelp in surprise as your small body thumps into the ground, and promptly burst into heartbroken sobs, all fun forgotten. Your tree has hurt you and you do not understand. The pain of betrayal is almost worse than the pain in your arm. Hot tears trickle down your face as you shout for your _nomon._ But she is off in the other direction doing some boring grownup task and it’s Del who tries to comfort you first. She reaches out, round face contorted in worry, and tries to take your hurt arm. You cry harder and she draws back fast. Suddenly your _nomon_ is here and you know everything will be alright. You hold out your arms for her, sobs quieting to snotty hiccups, but in the same moment you notice Del staring at her fingers. At your blood on her fingers. Wet and black.

 _“Sheidjus,”_ she murmurs. When she meets your eyes her expression is both reverent and horrified. _“Natblida.”_ She pushes to her feet and backs away, scuffing up dead leaves. 

Del is afraid of you. 

The tears burn and trickle down your face again. You do not understand exactly what just happened, but your chest feels cold and hollow. Your _nomon_ cradles you against her thin body. “Del,” she calls. “Del, _beja._ Please come back!”

But the girl is already running. Already gone into the forest.

~~*~~

On the edge of the clearing the giant hulk of your tree rests in the last of the day’s light. You squint at it across the fire, but get no comfort. The wind gusts, blows smoke into your face, you cough. Your chest feels scooped out and raw as a fresh kill.

“ _Nomon._ Am I...am I something bad?”

“ _Ai strikon,_ no. No. Never.”

She gathers you closer. You huddle against her.

“Then what am I?”

“You are my heart child. I love you more than anything in this world. That is all that matters.”

~~*~~

_In the far off long ago, after the world died and before it remembered how to grow fresh once more…_

It is a story you have never heard before.

~~*~~

You are in a different place, many days walk away from home. Everything is weird and wrong and you miss your tree. Winter has frozen the ground like rock when the strangers come for you. Somehow you knew they would. Snow is falling, drifting. Your _nomon_ weeps softly, pleads with them, pleads for you. 

_“Em pleni,”_ someone barks.

You are hauled onto horseback for the first time in your life. A young _gona_ with angry eyes slings her arm around you and pulls you tight against her chest. Your breath hitches in silent sobs.

 _“Shof op, goufa,”_ she hisses, “a _gona_ does not weep.”

You sit silent and sullen and do not cry as they carry you away.

~~*~~

### Ending

You glance at the blood coating your fingers, blink, lost for a second.

It hurts.

Your ears are ringing.

It hurts.

A gut-punch, but it's sharp and hot, burning from the inside out.

It hurts.

You had been running. Yes. Running towards the sound of _fayogon._ Rage and cold panic in your chest. The tower corridors endless under your pounding feet. Endless and empty - no guards, no Nightbloods, no one. Familiar voices in the back of your mind screaming at you to - _Stop. Think. Remember._ The door flies open as you hurtle into it. Thoughtless, idiotic, Anya would be so disappointed, she trained you better than this. You are unarmed, unprepared, full of emotions you had believed snuffed out long since, and now it dawns on you with a kind of dull incredulity - 

You have been shot. 

Fire sparks at the base of your skull.

_We warned you - Remember you are Heda._

You stand in the doorway to Clarke’s room, suspended in this agonising moment between breaths, and everything is clear and bright and terrible. 

Titus is sunk on his knees, face frozen in horror, gun beginning to fall from his suddenly slack grip. _Teacher, what have you done?_

A strange lank-haired man is tied to a chair, he is covered in signs of torture. 

Fresh bullet holes in the walls. Plaster dust drifting. Gunpowder and a scent like the taste of copper. It smells like _Maunon._ Like death from the mountain. 

“Lexa!” You turn your head and there is Clarke, half propped against the wall where you shoved her out of the way as she flew by, running like a desperate animal. Her mouth is slightly open in shock, blue eyes fixed on yours, her hand reaching out. She is whole and unharmed, and you could cry with relief.

“Heda?” Titus must see blood seeping between your fingers. His voice wavers, so small for a man who always looms. Your first thought is to offer reassurance, then you remember the gun. Your world smashes into fragments like a dropped egg. Titus has betrayed you, has in this brief afternoon broken every trust you ever gave to him, has tried to kill the one you...has tried to kill Clarke; and now it is your task to somehow repair this scrambled mess. 

He must have ordered everyone away. Of course they would obey without question. And your Nightbloods...wait...they are safe at the far training ground with Pine, at least until the rumbling chorus of their bellies calls them home for dinner.

You breathe. Your heart hammering frantic against your ribs.

Titus seems frozen, staring only at you. In spite of the pain in your gut you stalk forward and stand over him. “You should have trusted me,” you tell him, voice low and bitter. “After everything...you should have trusted me.”

He is trying to form words, but before he can speak you backhand him in the face and send him sprawling. Probably more from surprise than the strength of your blow. He lies propped on his elbows, a smear of your blood down one cheek. “Heda, I…”

 _“Natrona,”_ you snarl at him. Titus seems to shrivel on the spot.

“Forgive me, Heda.”

Your lip curls at that. Barely contained murder in the twitch of your muscles. “There will be a reckoning, Titus, for what you have done here today.”

Titus bows his head. The sacred marks tattooed on his shaved skull seem to watch you.

A flurry of movement on your right. Clarke darts forward, scoops the gun from the floor and stands by your side, dull ugly metal trained on Titus. It shakes in her hand.

“No,” you say. Clarke’s action has snapped you back into control of yourself. You are amazed how even your voice sounds. You sign for her to lower the gun, it is an abomination in this place. Before she can, there is a mighty pounding of feet and two huge identical guards come barrelling through the open door, swords drawn, red beards quivering with fury. Bron and Bran, the twins. You are glad to see them, glad beyond measure. Only now they have their weapons levelled at Clarke.

Pain is burning through you, but you cannot weaken now. You press one hand over your gut, spin on your heel to face your guards, and hold up your free hand in a silent order for them to stop. At another time the speed with which they halt and leap to attention would be almost comical.

Clarke is half turned, the wavering gun still pointing at Titus, and you can tell by the horrified intake of breath the moment she notices your shirt is covered in black blood. “Oh God, Lexa!” The gun thuds to the floor.

“Bron. Bran. There has been an unfortunate incident, but Wanheda has committed no wrong.” You shoot Clarke a reassuring glance. Her face is pale, her body a taut string. “You will not harm her in any way. Keep her safe. Help her.”

They dart confused looks at each other. _“Sha, Heda.”_

It is becoming harder to stand up, harder to focus on anything but the increasing pain, the shaking weakness in your legs. You sway dangerously and Clarke grabs you to stop you from falling. For a moment your face rests in the crook of her neck, you close your eyes as the scent of sleep-warm skin and forgiveness fills you. You could stay here forever and just breathe. One of her hands finds yours where it is pressed over the wound, trying to hold back the too fast welling of blood. Her fingers slip where your knuckles are already coated. You long to tell her it will be alright, wake her softly from this nightmare and bask in her glow, but you cannot. 

You steady yourself, focus, grateful Clarke understands enough not to say anything, to let you keep command while you still can.

“Titus…” You force the words out between your teeth, half-choked on this reality. “Titus, our _Fleimkepa_ has betrayed us.”

The twins’ expressions harden.

“We thought he might be up to something when he ordered everyone away,” says Bran.

“So we didn’t go far,” says Bron, with a tiny hint of pride. “Do you wish us to deal with him?”

There is no doubting Bron’s meaning. You imagine if Titus had succeeded. Imagine finding Clarke’s bloodied corpse, cold and still. Titus by your side as you plunged into a grief you could never return from, a war that would burn down the world. By your side as he had always been after Costia’s severed head was delivered to your bed. It would be so easy to say yes, end him, and yet -

_Remember you are Heda._

_The duty to your people comes first._

“No. He may yet be needed.”

Bron frowns, Bran’s fingers flex on his sword hilt. You can still see through the swirls of warrior ink, and kill-scars you know they carry, the boys they were so long ago. The current of fear they try to hide. Maybe in another life you could have called them friends. They see your pain and wish to hurt the one who caused it.

“Bron, you will bind and guard Titus here in this room.”

_“Sha, Heda.”_

“Bran, go and fetch Nyko. He is loyal. Tell him I am wounded by a bullet.” You wince and pause to catch your breath. You think Bran winces too. “Speak to no one else. This knowledge must stay between us. We must avoid rumours and panic, understand?” 

Bran blinks away what look like the beginnings of tears. _“Sha, ai Heda.”_

“And, Bran…”

_“Sha?”_

“Close the door on your way out. Hurry.”

The thud and snick of the door closing. Echo of running feet in the corridor growing distant.

Immediate tasks completed, you grit your teeth and order your feet to move, but nothing happens. The pain spikes high in your gut and you find yourself weak, your limbs not responding to your will. Your knees give way. The floor is hard and cold. You let out an embarrassing whimper and slump heavy against Clarke’s body, feel her shivering as she holds you - afraid. She half turns. “Help me get her to the bed!”

This is bad. Very bad. In your bones you are a warrior. Even before you truly knew what that meant you endured and never gave in. Your restless body was a vessel for your will long before the Flame chose you. Only an hour ago Clarke’s gentle lips and fingers traced the scars that criss-cross your skin. In the raging heart of battle you stand strong, blood in your eyes, sword in hand. The _fisa’s_ knife and needle bite, you rise up again. You survive. Even when every cell in you longs for rest, your duty to your people pumps blood through your veins. Breathe in, breathe out. Get up. Fight. You are not finished. But a tiny piece of metal has punched a vicious hole in you just below your ribs, and you cannot get up.

Titus pulls against Bron’s hold, suddenly urgent, and when you give a nod for Bron to release him he comes to you. He mutters low secret things, hesitates a moment then loops his arms under yours as Clarke grabs your legs, and together they lift you, your dead-weight hanging between them like a sleepy child. For a second you have a blurred upside down view of Titus’ face, feel the soft wool scratch of his robes against your temple, then they lay you gently down and you clench your jaw and do not make a sound as the wound tugs and pulls with the change of position. You raise your knees up to a peak to ease the pressure. 

Titus stands aside, hands folded before him, face impassive and eyes full of misery. He is trying to hide it, but you have known him almost all your life, have jogged doggedly at his heels when your head only reached his waist, have fought to stay awake, propped against your fellow _Natblidas,_ through endless hours of hearing him impart his wisdom. Heda taught you to kill, but Titus taught you to read. It would be so much easier if you did not understand, if you could hate him for this, if he did not care as he does, however wrongheaded he may be. 

This time when Bron manhandles Titus away he does not struggle.

Clarke is so very gentle. Her eyes constantly flicking between the wound and your face. There is such comfort in her presence. You wish her safe and far from here, yet cling to her touch. 

You are shaking more. “Clarke, I’m so sorry.”

“No, please don’t.” Her gaze enfolds you. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.”

You wish with all your heart that that was true.

There is a quiet noise from a far corner that might be the sound of Titus moaning.

“Let me see,” Clarke says as she slowly eases back your hand from its press over the bullet hole. You feel the thin fabric of your shirt tearing, then her careful clever fingers checking the area. It’s agonising and you bite down on a cry. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. Just lie still.” Clarke is trying to smile, but her eyes are full of unshed tears.

Your eyes fall closed for a moment as you struggle to catch your breath. When you open them all you can see is Clarke hovering over you, her face pale and set with determination. Your throat is clogged with all the words you dreamed you might speak to her one day. The tang of blood is in your mouth, but through it you can taste her still. “Clarke…”

“I need something to stop the bleeding,” Clarke says, turning slightly to Bron. Her voice is harsh with command, utter certainty she will be obeyed, but as she turns back to you her gaze is all soft worry, flicking constantly between your drawn face, and the place where her hands are pressing firm over yours, helping to hold the life inside. She is stained black with you. Her mouth works, lips press together, she swallows hard. “If you can find some clean cloths - fine ones - like gauze. Um, alcohol. There’s a bottle in the dresser there. A knife maybe…” She leans down and with her free hand rummages in the pack dropped by the bed, pulls out a familiar knife, lays it nearby.

So many voices now. You cannot stop the flood.

_You lead them into the swamplands - branwada. Heat and insects and a creeping sickness that takes half your gonas in a week. The rebels pick you off one by one. There is no way out. You die face down in brackish water, a knife in your spine._

_Remember you are Heda._

Half your life has been spent on battlefields. You know this bleeding is heavier than it should be, that can only mean the bullet has hit a vein inside. If Nyko is far away, and if Clarke cannot stop this, you may need Titus after all. Lexa’s body, your body is a vessel, nothing more. But the Flame is eternal and must continue. Whatever petty human things have happened, you and Titus bear a sacred trust, and you will fulfil it. 

But not yet. 

Not yet. 

Clarke is distracted for a second, muttering to Bron about freeing someone called Murky? Murphy? You draw in a deep breath and make no sound as you push the middle finger of your hand into the wound, it feels sticky-hot, obscene, but - yes, there it is. Now you can’t help but shudder and let out a whimper of pain. Blood pools between the webbing of your fingers. Clarke’s face turns both horrified and perhaps impressed as she lifts her hand and sees.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Buying us a little more time. The bullet...I can feel it, it nicked a vein. There’s too much, too much blood. I will cover the tear. Try and stop it.”

Bron hurries back with a small bundle of the things Clarke asked for. She says a quiet thank you. Her less bloodied hand is stroking your hair.

~~**~~

You drift and breathe and try to ignore the pain. At the base of your skull the Flame burns bright. The voices overlapping each other, surging and receding like the ocean. It is becoming difficult to know which memories are yours. Your thoughts are slow and muddy.

_The torn pages of books flutter down from above you. Spiral down like dead leaves in a storm, below the ornate dome of a high high ceiling. Yelling and smoke all around. You die covered in the ghosts of stories you never learned to read._

_Remember you are Heda._

The blood finds its way. Your fingertip does not stop it for long. It pumps and pumps. It soaks the layers of cloth Clarke has tried laying over the mess. It slicks everything black. Your heart pounds as if you had just sprinted all the way from the eastern wall of Polis to the west, dodging through the thronging streets and leaping open gutters. You are all too familiar with what that means. The more blood you lose the harder your heart will beat and beat and beat, until finally there is not enough left to fill the husk. A wound like this one is hard to staunch. 

Bran and Nyko do not come.

The sun begins to sink lower in the sky.

Clarke tends to you with furious care. The man with the lank hair - Murphy, Clarke had called him - paces at the edges of your perception until she snaps at him to stop. Bron chews worriedly on one of his braids, when he thinks you can’t see. Titus is silent in his bonds.

Still they do not come.

Clarke checks the pulse in your neck, brows furrowing, dark. When you murmur, you are thirsty she moistens your dry lips with a cloth dipped in cool water. “I need to try packing the...the.” Her voice sounds as if it is being dragged reluctantly over gravel. She can’t even say the word. “That means I have to take out the bullet.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. I trust you.”

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The scent of alcohol stings in your nose, sets a fire on your skin, cleansing. 

_You have seen fifteen summers when you lead them against the Maunon. You are close to the tunnels when the acid-fog surrounds your gonakru. You wheeze out your life on a bed of pine needles, flesh blistered and melting. At the end you are blind and crying for your nomon._

_Remember you are Heda._

“Lexa?”

You blink a few times, your eyes refusing to focus. The knife in Clarke’s hand jolts you for a moment. She held it to your throat not long since - and you let her. Now she is trying to save your life with it. If nothing else, you have been granted this forgiveness and you are grateful. Clarke glances to your face, seeking something? Through the tiny tremors of your muscles you find enough control for a small nod - _Sha, niron. I’m ready._ You suck in a deep breath, and try to focus on the tickle of the furs under your palms, the bright flare at the base of your skull, which seems to be growing ever brighter, but when the pain comes a strangled sound escapes from deep in your throat. Clarke is strong and fierce and doesn’t stop cutting. Her finger and thumb sink into you without hesitation, searching, grasping, pulling. How could you ever have thought her weak?

She packs the wound with clean fine cloth. You wonder if you will pass out from the pain, but you don’t. More cloth, more pressure in your gut, a fire like steel fresh from the forge and glowing white-hot being pressed into your flesh. You gasp and fight to stay still, tears trickling from the corners of your shut eyes. Your whole body shivering violently, pain coming now in wave after wave as Clarke presses down, her palms heavy over the rapidly soaking cloths. You force your eyes open, your breathing steady. 

_Remember you are Heda,_ the voices whisper, louder now. _Remember._

You bleed through the packing in minutes.

Your mind is whirling. Your mind is still. Your mind is a clean-edged blade cutting through the pain-fog enveloping you, and you can see Clarke’s eyes darken with the panic she will not yet let herself feel. She stands balanced on the edge of a lonely, howling fall, and you will do anything left in your power to keep her from it. You struggle with unwilling muscles until you can lay one hand over hers, squeeze gently. 

Your throat is dry, your voice cracking where you wanted it to be strong. “Don’t be afraid.”

Clarke nods, purses her lips, you see a slight twitch around the corners of her mouth and wonder if she’s trying to smile for you. “Shouldn’t I be the one telling you that?”

_“Sha.”_

“You’re gonna be fine. Just stay still.”

You hum in agreement, then grit your teeth as she pulls out dark ribbons of drenched cloth. Packs in fresh cloth the colour of a ripe barley field. It hurts. You swat feebly at her hands. For a second you are five summers old again, longing for comfort, for your _nomon’s_ arms. You are cold. Cold and so very tired. Each breath coming harder than the last. _“Beja,”_ you mumble. “Please stop. Please. It hurts.”

Clarke finishes, lays her warm strong hand over yours. “I am not letting you die.”

“The next Commander will protect you.”

Clarke leans close, eyes fierce. Her lip trembles, her tears begin to fall. “I don’t want the next Commander. I want you.”

_Remember you are..._

~~*~~

Aden was just a boy this morning as you and all the Nightbloods broke your fast at the long table. His mouth was full of warm bread and his hair sticking up, he grinned at you, though his eyes stayed solemn. Cal had got honey on her nose somehow. Little Nishka was trying to tickle her. You should have stopped her childishness, but you didn’t. You wish you could tell Aden, tell all of them not to be afraid. But you would never lie to them.

In a different world, you would save Aden if you could. You would save all of them. Carry this burden forever if it meant they would be free.

In a different world, the clans would live in peace.

In a different world, you and Clarke would have time.

_Tell me a story._

_Once in the far off long ago…_

_Remember you are Heda._

~~*~~

“She’s losing too much blood.” Clarke’s voice is low, urgent, as she rapidly changes the drenched black cloths for fresh ones. Your hands make weak fists in the bed furs as you struggle not to curl away from the agony in your gut, to let Clarke do as she must. A quiet scream escapes you, too tired to hold it in, your eyes clenched shut so hard you see bursts of colour behind the lids. She gentles you, the warm rasp of her voice your only shelter. “Stay with me.”

Bran and Nyko do not come. You fear for them and have no power to help.

They do not come and now it is too late.

You glance to your right, to the gathering dark of the far corner. Titus’ eyes meet yours. You breathe and shudder. Your skin is clammy with sweat. There is not enough air in the room. Each breath is harder than the last. It hurts. 

You have died so many times. The path to the River is worn deep by your steps. Yet still it hurts so much to leave.

_“Fleimkepa.”_

~~*~~

“You will never again attempt to harm Clarke,” you tell Titus. “Swear it.”

Night has come. Around the room candle flames leap and flicker. Your pulse is beating out your life, loud, savage as war-drums in your ears, the pounding of the earth answering your childhood whispers. _Tombom tombom._ And you are cold, so cold.

Clarke is holding your hand. You ache for her.

Titus cups the side of your face in his warm calloused palm, his thumb strokes your cheek. You have never known him so tender. He bows his head for a second, blinks, nods. “I swear it.”

“Then do your job. Serve the next better than you have served me, Flamekeeper.”

Titus fishes inside the folds of his robe, close to his heart, and brings out a small tin box you have seen once before, on your Ascension Day. The day you killed the only brothers and sisters you ever knew. The day you took the Flame, their blood still fresh in the creases of your skin. The day you became endless. This is the way of your people. But a sacred death is still a death, a grievous loss, an end to all potential. Given time you could have found a way to save your _Natblida,_ you had always planned...but time has run out. Titus holds the battered ancient tin cupped in his hands as he kneels by you. Waiting.

A little behind him Bron stands tall, his face in shadow.

“Titus, what are you doing?” Now there is rage in Clarke where a moment ago there had been a calm place in the storm. Her grip on your hand tightens to the edge of pain.

“What I must.”

“No. Lexa. I will fix you. We can get help, just stay with me. Just -” Clarke’s eyes are wild, pleading. “Just don’t. Please...I am not letting you die,” she whispers, ferocious, close to breaking.

In this instant, you could let yourself believe that she loves you as completely as you love her. You are weak even now, and you no longer care. For the first time in years, the first time since Costia - you do not want to die. _Let me stay. Beja. Beja. Let me stay._

A chorus of voices spiking from the base of your skull, filling your mind as they do in dreams, their threads bright in the lightless places.

_Remember you are Heda._

_Soon you will be with us_

But what of Lexa? Now you hear an echo of other voices. Voices you have tried so hard not to love - Anya, Gustus, Costia, your _nomon_ \- and you are not ashamed to let hot tears fall.

“Hey, Lexa, don’t you dare give up,” Clarke says, somewhere far away. Distorted. You try to hold onto her - the bliss of her body moving with yours, the wonder of her inside you, her taste on your tongue, the yearning strength of her heart beating under your hand, the promise of her smile - but you cannot. She’s changing the soaking cloths again, but the pain is a distant thing. The room is spinning. Your breath coming in desperate gasps. Your body shakes and shakes, free and animal in its dying.

You love her.

You love her, and it’s not enough.

 _“Ai gonplei ste odon.”_ For years, you have prepared to say these words, now they feel strange and thick in your mouth; but you say them, as you must.

Clarke shudders violently, blinks away from you, a strangled howl in her throat.

Titus shifts on his knees beside you, the little box safe in his hands. You see the painted image of a skull grinning between his fingers.

_Death is not the end._

~~*~~

“Clarke.”

“Yes?”

Her eyes are the blue of deep water, dark and shining. She’s close, surrounding you, warm kiss of her breath on your face. Her hand so very gentle, stroking your hair. With the last of your strength you lean into her touch.

“You were right, Clarke. Life is about more than just surviving.”

And this is - 

_Thank you._

_I love you._

_I would have been yours._

She gives a shallow nod, face crumpling with loss. You hope she understands.

Everything is going dark. Your body is small and cold as frozen earth. Familiar voices call you home. Deep in the base of your skull, beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond joy - an explosion of light, colour, memories - the last flare of a dying sun.

Clarke is weeping. Clarke is with you. Clarke is letting you go. Her voice is a breaking, distant thing on the edge of a great silence.

_In peace may you leave the shore._

Your eyes are open but you cannot see.

_In love may you find the next…_

There is nothing but light.

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I researched to the best of my ability I may still have got plenty of things wrong. Apologies. Feel free to yell politely at me in the comments, about that or just Clexa feels in general. This is my first fic in over a decade. I am nervous little bean, but comments and constructive criticism are always welcome. They feed my soul. Thank you.   
> And thank you Clexakru for being the most amazing fandom I have ever known, and for continuing to be inspiring and produce great content in spite of everything.  
> I kept the Flame in the story even though it makes no logical sense. Blame my subconscious for choosing to include it.  
> Trigedasleng translations:  
> nomon = mother  
> nontu= father  
> goufa = child  
> tombom = heart  
> gona = warrior  
> sheidjus = shade-blood, Nightblood  
> Natblida = Nightblood  
> beja = please  
> ai strikon = my little one  
> em pleni = enough  
> shof op = be quiet  
> fayogon = gun  
> Maunon = Mountain Men  
> natrona = traitor  
> sha = yes  
> Fleimkepa = Flamekeeper  
> fisa = healer  
> branwada = fool  
> gonakru = army  
> ai gonplei ste odon = my fight is over


	2. A Soft Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa goes on a very strange journey. She's going to be fine in the end, I promise.
> 
> Apologies for the long wait for this chapter. Life started happening to me a lot and all at once. It still is.
> 
> Huge thanks to Athena02 for her most excellent beta.

### Interlude

There is a silence in the deepest part of you. An untouched place that glows with a soft dark light. It is the secret of tree roots and the furthest stars and hibernating bears. Here you can be nothing. Here you can find peace. Time stops. All things stop.

 

You are a weaver of infinite stories through the longest of nights, yet you are blissfully empty.

 

You breathe and drift and cease.

 

But in the end your voices find you.

 

They always find you.

 

 _Now I am become death,_ they murmur inside your head.

 

_Remember._

 

_Remember - destroyer of worlds._

~~*~~

“Thank you for coming. Especially considering the early hour. I’m afraid my time is somewhat limited.”

 

“It’s not that early. Besides, you did buy me breakfast.” You give the brown paper bag from the stand on the corner a perfunctory wiggle.

 

“True.”

 

Together you walk along the seawall path in silence. A cyclist passes. A couple of hardy joggers practically steaming. An old woman walking a nondescript little dog bundled in what might be a hand knitted coat. 

 

“I was sorry to hear about what happened.”

 

You stop dead, knees locked to hold you upright. Another cyclist swerves to avoid you, bell dinging angrily. “I...thank you. I’d prefer not to…I’m fine actually.”

 

“Of course.”

 

It’s easier to stare out over Dead Man’s Island and the inlet beyond, than it is to face this attempt at sympathy. You take a few deep steadying breaths of frosty air. You have a troubling sense you may have pulled on odd socks this morning. Gulls swoop and cry. Over the grey-blue water, behind downtown, the sky turns delicate pink and orange with sunrise. It casts the skyscrapers into vivid silhouette. Towers standing as tall and straight as pine trees reaching for the light.

 

“Professor -”

 

“Becca, please. We’re equals after all.” She offers you a tight-lipped smile and begins walking again, heading down a path that leads inland. Dead leaves crunching beneath her heels. Her red tailored coat seems less immaculate than usual, her ponytail swings a little askew.

 

You catch up in a couple of strides. “Becca,” you begin. Using her given name is disconcerting, but she asked, so you will do it as a courtesy. “Um, why did you ask me here?” 

 

“Isn’t it possible I simply wanted to check in with my best and brightest former student?” 

 

“Touching, but no, not really.”

 

“You are, as usual, quite right.”

 

“What do you need from me?”

 

She sighs and sits on a worn wooden bench. There’s a memorial plaque fixed there, illegible with age. She sets her own breakfast bag and take-out coffee down beside her. You take a seat at the opposite end and do the same. A neutral zone of food and beverages between you.

 

“You know, my parents used to bring me here when I was a kid,” she says, using her cappuccino to gesture to where seven intricately carved and painted totem poles loom tall, set into the ground ahead of you. You stare at the stylised animal and human figures, the other abstract yet meaningful designs. You’ve read they represent stories, lineages, that some tribes even carved poles for publicly shaming miscreants. They are quite a famous attraction. In the misty early autumn light, their presence is commanding. They could have marched out of the forest behind them. Even now a few tourists are milling around taking selfies. “I used to wonder why. What fascinated them about this place. I think perhaps I understand now.”

 

“It’s beautiful.” You nod and unwrap your bran muffin, wishing you’d indulged in the lemon poppy seed just this once. “May I be direct?”

 

“I would expect nothing else from you.”

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

“Yes, I fear everything is.” She pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger for a moment, before she lets go and turns to face you. “Do you ever wonder where it began?”

 

“Where what began?”

 

“The end?”

 

“The end of what exactly?”

 

“The world.”

 

“I don’t think I understand…”

 

“You will.”

 

You shake your head. Concentrate on peeling the lid from your cup of green tea. It instantly fogs up your glasses. You remove, clean and replace them; sliding them back on with a degree of chagrin. “Forgive me, but none of this makes sense.”

 

“Well, we live in a galaxy that smells like raspberries, tastes like rum, and whose primary colour is actually milk white. Make sense of that.” She sips her cappuccino, one eyebrow slightly raised in your direction.

 

You rise to the challenge. “But there are sound scientific reasons for all of th -”

 

Her throaty laughter silences you.

 

“Are you mocking me?”

 

“No, Lexa. I would never. Simply…” She - Becca - struggles to open her paper bag, apparently hindered by her gloves. She begins biting the woolen fingertips and tugging them free one by one. The sight makes your own teeth grate, nausea rises, you wince and look away. Your gloves are fingerless. A dog cocks its leg against one of the totem poles and releases a steaming spray; its owner drones into his cell phone and pretends not to notice. You experience an intense desire to punch him in the face. When you manage to look back, Becca is chewing her pain au chocolate, thoughtfully.

 

“Maybe it began when the first time one hominid picked up a rock and hit another hominid with it?” she says.

 

“That’s one hypothesis, I guess.”

 

“For me it was binary. Ones and zeros. The reduction of the world to yes or no answers. Black or white. Dead or alive. No room for uncertainty. Input and output. Input a question and output an answer. The problem being that for every question and answer there is another and another. Lay a living thing on a slab and dissect it until there is nothing discernible left. Then I can tell you every single thing that comprised it but I can’t tell you what made it alive.” She takes another sip of coffee. Dabs her lips with a paper napkin.

 

There is a Thunderbird carved at the top of one of the totem poles, two prominent horns atop his head, majestic wings spread wide. You have seen versions of this symbol everywhere from totebags to keyrings to graffiti in an alleyway, but you have no true idea what it means. That old hopeless need to lose yourself in the realms of the unquantifiable wells up in you; a craving to understand things which will always be beyond your understanding. Maybe you should just start drinking.

 

Becca leans closer to you, gesticulating with her part finished pain au chocolate. “You break everything apart looking for the secret that makes it work, but there’s always another layer, and another and another until you tear the fabric of reality itself.”

 

You hum in agreement. 

 

Near the gift shop a lanky woman shouts into her phone as she paces up and down. Inside the lights are already on, staff preparing for the day.

 

“It can be hard to remember that once upon a time we - humans that is - thought the atom was the smallest thing in the universe. But then we split the atom and discovered worlds within worlds and power beyond imagining.” She sits back and focuses her full attention on the totem poles, their bright colours beginning to glow in the growing light. After a minute or so of silent contemplation she shifts position, glances at the thin gold watch at her wrist, counting under her breath. A few more seconds pass, you realise your restless fingers have reduced your muffin to crumbs without permission. Becca’s head dips lower, almost as if she’s praying, before she swallows hard and turns to you. “What could possibly go wrong,” she says with dull finality.

 

The lights in the gift shop go out. There is an electrical cracking noise and an instant later the transformers on the nearby power line blow out in a shower of sparks and burst into flames. A few people scream and duck. Already, small fires are burning along the lines as far as you can see. The lanky woman yells into her phone again, appears to get no response, and shakes it before staring around wildly. 

 

“What the hell?” You leap to your feet, scattering muffin remains. Spin in place, scanning your surroundings. A man with a stroller is kneeling, trying to comfort a crying infant. A cyclist on the seawall has fallen off her bike, tangled with a dog-walker. Across the inlet fires are springing up, burning all over downtown, distant car horns blaring.

 

Becca rises slowly, her face set. “I’m sorry, Lexa. Truly.”

 

All at once there is a shift, a sense of vertigo like falling in a dream. You stagger, grab at the bench for support. Your vision blurs, you blink, feel for your glasses - they’re gone. You catch a glimpse of your hand where it’s braced on the bleached wood and, oh...your gloves are soft black leather with tiny silver bones stitched onto them, a map of the skeleton beneath, macabre and familiar. Your throat grows thick and tight. You stand up - feel your long coat wrap around you like a second skin - the swords at your back, the knife at your hip. 

 

 _Remember you are Heda,_ a voice whispers deep inside your skull.

 

_Remember..._

 

Becca is wearing some kind of uniform, grey like the _Maunon,_ your sacred sign is stitched onto the cloth. 

 

“What is this?” you demand. Fear and anger coursing through you.

 

Becca stands steady, her feet set shoulder-width apart. She crosses her arms, her expression resolute. “The first wave of strikes. Some of the missiles have already hit their targets creating a massive EMP pulse, a power surge blowing out the grid. Catastrophic damage. So no electricity, no radio, no radar.”

 

“Missiles?” You know all too well about missiles. “Becca, what did you do?” Your swords are drawn and ready in your hands, as easy as taking a breath.

 

“Too much. Not enough.”

 

All around you the air is charged with lightning. The foul scent of plastic-smoke and burning tech. People are beginning to run, or cling to each other, some simply stand alone, mute and staring at the fires. A clamour of confused and angry voices beats against your ears. You must act, you must help, but you stand in a strange world with an unknown enemy.

 

Becca eyes your swords, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “You can put those away, they won’t help.”

 

The huskiness of her voice leaves you feeling hollow and homesick somehow, chasing an after-image of stormy blue eyes and a half remembered smile. You shake it off, keep your blades levelled on her. There is a primal comfort in the way their grips rest cradled by your palms and fingers - perfect weight, perfect balance. A simple focus for the fierce fight or flight of your body.

 

People rush past within arm’s reach, yet none of them appear to even notice you or Becca.

 

“I wondered for a long time, what brought us to the death of the world? What, apart from my own hubris, I mean.” She lets out a quiet bitter laugh. “Then I realised - it was stories. The first time one of us said - that one is other, that one is different, that one is less than us, that one is a threat, listen as I tell you why - that is when it began, this landslide, this tidal wave. Maybe it was already too late.” Becca steps forward until the honed points of your blades rest against her shirt. She ignores them. You allow it. Her eyes are dark and infinitely weary as she looks into yours. “Tell me,” she says, “in your years as Heda, what have you learned?”

 

“That as long as we can justify ourselves, our actions, we are capable of committing any atrocity you can imagine. But I also -” 

 

“Then you understand,” she bursts out, cutting across your thoughts. “Our minds, Lexa, they are our most terrifying weapon. Take away all our physical weapons, all our tech, and we would still find ways to kill so long as that voice in our head tells us the other is a threat, the other doesn’t deserve to live. We would rip each other’s throats out with our teeth and smile through the blood.” 

 

The sun has broken through the cloud layer above the high towers. It sends light dancing from glass and steel. Hundreds of fires are spreading through the city fast as sparks on dry tinder. Screaming and shouts and the constant blaring of sirens drift on the breeze. Further inland a column of black smoke is rising into the sky. It is a beautiful morning.

 

You take a step backwards and sheath your swords. “I don’t believe that is true. It is hard, yes, but most of us, we wish for peace.” 

 

Quietly your voices chant, _jus drein jus daun._

 

_Jus drein jus daun._

 

A young woman with frizzy red hair trips and falls close by, the baby strapped to her back in a sling begins to wail heartily as she struggles to get up. You turn to help them but Becca grabs your arm with both her hands, tugging. You bare your teeth at her. “Let go.”

 

“You cannot help them,” she tells you, low and urgent. “They are all long dead. _Emo gonplei ste odon._ This is just a memory, or more accurately, an extrapolation. Code and neurons firing. We are ghosts in the machine.”

 

Ghosts? But not the wandering kind who are soothed by chants and drums and sweet offering smoke. Cold dread creeps up your throat. Here you are a lost and angry spirit. “This is a nightmare,” you say, clinging to a last hope. “I will wake up now.”

 

Becca looks at you with a kind of pity, her hands on your arm become gentle, one rising to clasp your shoulder. “No, Lexa,” she says, “this isn’t a nightmare, although I wish to god it was.” She takes on the tone of a teacher, quiet, precise. “An atomic bomb destroyed this city one hundred and one years ago. It has already been launched. Right now a standard 5 megaton ballistic missile is heading for us, travelling at approximately 15,000mph. I stood on a space station 300 miles above the earth, and watched it die...watched it all die, and I knew it was my fault. I came back to try and heal what I had broken.”

 

In Polis, deep beneath the tower there is a room. It is hidden and well guarded. Secret and sacred. There, in the time after the world died and before it remembered how to grow again, your ancestors had painted stories on the walls. Your favourite had always been the silhouette of a woman, a goddess, falling from the sky surrounded by fire and stars. _Pramheda._ You feel sick. Your stomach roils with the realisation of betrayal.

 

“I should slit your throat,” you hiss at her. 

 

 _Pramheda_ simply looks at you with sorrow. You wrench yourself away from her touch, spin in place, your eyes searching the sky until you lock onto a thin white trail moving unimaginably fast, growing ever closer.

 

 _Jus drein jus daun,_ your voices chant.

 

“Why did you do this?”

 

“By accident, would you believe?” _Pramheda_ says. “I thought people could be better once. I thought I could save the world. I created an artificial intelligence, a being of perfect logic, to help us - or so I hoped. By the time I realised my mistake she had escaped and…” For a blink you see a woman in a red dress standing in _Pramheda’s_ place. She wears her face but is not her. She tilts her head to one side, regards you with her dark, cold eyes, then she is gone. “I made an error.”

 

A growl of futile rage erupts from you.

 

 _Pramheda_ ignores it. She waves her right hand in a practiced, complex motion and everything stops. The people, the waves in the inlet, the circling gulls, even the flames. All is held in eerie stillness.

 

“It’s time,” she tells you. She points to the sky over the city, to a barely visible black dot at the end of the trail you were watching. “That is a fusion bomb - beautiful in its way. It is about to implode. 50 billionths of a second after that - heat, radiation, pressure. Boom. It will explode high over the city.” She pauses, seemingly lost in thought, her fingers toy with the sacred symbol embroidered onto her shirt over her heart. After a few beats she straightens her back and continues. Her voice barely wavers. “At the hypocentre a fireball hotter than the surface of the sun. Everything for eleven square miles vaporised in an instant. Just shadows remain burned onto the ground. The blast wave will expand, destroying everything still standing, turning buildings into shrapnel, blowing away cars, animals, trees, people. It will shatter glass thirteen miles away from ground zero. After fifty seconds the city is gone. Just gone.”

 

“This is how my world was born,” you say flatly. “This is _praimfaya_.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then it was all a lie. Everything I was taught, everything I believed we were...that I was...” The rage surges back, acid in your throat, pounding in your head, clenched with a death-grip in your fists. “You are not our saviour,” you spit at her. “Not a sacred thing.”

 

 _Pramheda_ moves as if to reach for you, then thinks better of it. “No I’m not, Lexa. But it served some people well to believe I was. You - you were always different.” She smiles a slight inward smile. “You surprised me at first - you with your gentle broken heart. You hide it well, but I know you. You see the cruelty of humans, of the world, and you are bewildered by it. Oh, you have taught yourself to understand it, even emulate it at times, but I see how it hurts you, how you struggle. You made me hope again.”

 

_“Pramheda?”_

 

Now she does step close, and you do not stop her. “I will tell you a secret, Lexa, here at the end of all things.” Her breath is warm against your face. “The Flame did not choose you. The Flame did not make you Heda. You did. You chose. You made yourself Heda. You alone.”

 

She turns away from you and stares east across the inlet and into the sunrise. When she waves her hand the world moves again, but slow and unreal as something seen in a drugged sleep. There is a blinding flash in the sky. From it a second sun is born, small but growing bigger, bigger every instant. It glows green as it engulfs the city, then white again as it expands. Burning. Consuming. Devouring. Perfect and terrifying in its destruction. You are in awe. Ahead of it comes a wind of indescribable speed and heat. _Pramheda_ flames up like a torch and disintegrates as she is torn away. You surrender with open arms, and do not feel the fire as it takes you.

 

_Remember you are Heda._

 

_Remember..._

 

There is nothing but light.

~~*~~

_Leksa._

 

At the sound of your name you lurch into awareness. Here you stand amongst what remains of a forest. The trees are all broken off near the base, snapped as easily as dry twigs. They fan out in every direction for as far as you can see in the murky light. There is ash in your throat and in your eyes.

 

The city is gone. A wasteland surrounds you. When you look back you see the huge mushroom cloud blooming as high as mountains. Smoke, dirt and debris swept up into a plume of black, grey and purple, and at its heart a red fire burns. It is beautiful in its way. 

 

You turn away, walk and walk and walk. The world changes.

 

Here pine trees grow close and tall as ancient towers, crowding towards the sky. Their trunks glint with frost. Ice hangs from their branches. A low sun flickers between the trees. Your breath plumes out, freezes in the air and tinkles like tiny bells as it hits the snow-covered ground. You are cold, so cold, and yet it does not trouble you as it should. It is becoming harder to move. You stumble, wheezing, hands braced on your knees. Lurch on a few more steps, fall. Your skin cracking and burnt black by the desperate cold. It will not be long now. 

 

_Just a little further, strikon. We are almost home._

 

 _“Ait, nomon,”_ you whisper, struggling back to your feet. You gather the rags of your strength and move forwards. You wish she would carry you as she used to, warm and sleepy, your small hands tangled in her hair.

 

The clearing is not as you remember. Your shelter is gone. The firepit is a shallow dip in the snow. But your tree is there and that is all that matters. The great protective arch of its trunk, its branches yearning upwards. Where the low sun touches its blanket of snow and ice it glows and sparks tiny flashes of rainbow light. You sink down against it, grateful, shuddering, propped close to where its ancient roots grip the earth. You will not move again.

 

You stare up through the stark patterns of tree branches and into a sky turning red with sunset. Your heart thuds sluggish behind your ribs. It doesn’t hurt. You let out a long exhale, watch your breath coil in the air like smoke. It is the only warmth in this place.

 

 _Look. See, you are dragon, nomon_ tells you. Laughter in her voice.

 

 _Sha, nomon._ You smile. Your eyes prickle with tears you cannot cry.

 

Then her arms are around you, holding you safe. And it has been so long. So very long. You let your eyes fall closed. You rest.

 

 _Reshop goufa,_ she whispers against your temple. _Reshop, ai tombom._

~~*~~

The path is deep, worn hollow by the passing of many feet. You do not remember how you found it or how long you have been walking. Only that you must follow it to the end. The forest around you is full of spring. Birds singing riotously in every tree. Soft golden sunlight lancing through the tall trunks, warming you. Tiny flowers dot the ground with explosions of white and pink and violet. Everything is so alive. Yet your steps drag and your heart is heavy with a nameless ache. You move through the trees like a shadow. Occasionally you see the tracks of other travellers sunk into softer ground. They only ever lead one way.

 

You are lost within a grief you do not understand, when a loud and angry chittering makes you start and stare about. On a low branch nearby a _snacha_ bears its teeth at you and curls its tiny front paws, it is a valiant attempt at menace. You offer it a polite nod and trudge on. But the creature seems to have awoken you to the budding life all around. Your steps grow lighter. You hold your head higher. Soon the path carries you downhill towards the sound of moving water. The trees thin to a scatter of dogwood, alder and river birch. The light gets brighter and suddenly you find yourself blinking beneath open sky, meadow grass under your feet and in front of you the gentle curve of a great broad river.

 

Costia - your Costia - sits on the opposite bank, her ochre-red skirts drawn up around her knees and her bare feet dangling in the water. When she looks up and gives you her old half-smile you break into a run, your heart almost leaping out of your chest. You skid to a halt by the river’s edge, panting, grinning like a fool through your tears.

 

“Cos?”

 

_“Hei, ai hodnes.”_

 

“I missed you,” you blurt. You feel as if your face may split from smiling. Have you ever smiled this hard? Yet something nags still at the back of your mind, curbs your wild surge of happiness.

 

Costia ducks her head for a moment, tight black curls bobbing loose around her face. “I missed you too.” When she meets your gaze again you can tell, even at this distance, her eyes are shining with tears. “Although I had hoped I would not see you quite so soon.”

 

“Wait...you...are you not glad to see me, _niron_?”

 

“Seeing you brings me such joy, Leksa. But the reason I am seeing you brings me sorrow.” The raw compassion in Costia’s face almost frightens you. 

 

“Reason? I...I don’t understand. There was a path. I walked and you were here, and -”

 

“You don’t remember.”

 

“Remember?”

 

A shadow passes over you, clouds covering the sun. You shiver, the fine hairs on your nape rising as the world shifts around you.

 

It is night and Anya stands before you. Anya has come back to you. Her starved body is clothed in rags and covered in injuries, mud and filth. She sways with exhaustion, but her eyes gleam fierce in the moonlight. You clasp each other’s forearms. Although she shakes, her grip is strong, as if she will never let go. You stand together, silent and grateful. This moment is precious. The crack of a shot fired rips through your peace. Suddenly there is a bullet hole in the centre of Anya’s chest, hot blood spatters your face. She pays it no attention, simply continues staring at you.

 

_A thin braid, dirty blonde. You stroke it gently, lay it down on the table by your throne. Did she die well?_

 

You gape, stricken and helpless. “You...you’re dead.”

 

“Yes, _sis._ Sharp as ever I see.” Anya nods towards you with a sympathetic grimace. “So are you.”

 

_You glance at the blood coating your fingers, blink, lost for a second._

_It hurts._

_Your ears are ringing._

_It hurts._

_A gut-punch, but it's sharp and hot, burning from the inside out._

_It hurts._

 

“Oh.” You stagger and sink to your knees with a thump, grasp fist-fulls of grass and fight to steady your breathing. There was pain and rage and so much blood. Titus had a gun. And Clarke - Clarke was weeping.

 

_In peace may you leave the shore…_

 

Speaking the last words of her people. Speaking them for you.

 

_In love may you find the next._

 

“I remember,” you murmur. “I remember everything.”

 

You wish you could comfort her. Tell her it doesn’t hurt anymore. Tell her that you -

 

A loud splash and a litany of inventive curses jolt you out of your reverie. Anya is wading in the shallows near the far bank of the river, somehow whole and unharmed. She is wearing just a light undershirt and pants rolled up as far as they will go; brandishing a three-pronged wooden fishing spear, and dripping water from everywhere. A huge speckled silver trout gives its tail a derisive flick in her direction before swimming away.

 

Costia shakes her head. “That happens every single time,” she tells you, failing to hide her smirk.

 

You find you are laughing in spite of yourself. “Have you ever caught one, An?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“No.”

 

Anya and Costia answer at once, then glare at each other.

 

“There is no pain, no death among the dead,” Costia continues. “Anya hasn’t adjusted yet.”

 

“Stupid _joken_ fish,” Anya growls, statue still, spear poised again. “When I catch one, neither of you are having any.”

 

More laughter bubbles up within you, a contentment you haven’t felt since early childhood. Costia is laughing with you, Anya is trying to look angry though the corners of her mouth twitch up. You laugh harder, roll onto your back and howl into the wide blue sky. It feels endless. Your dear ones are here and you are free. No longer Heda. No longer sworn to bear the weight of your people, of a broken world on your shoulders. You are simply and forever Lexa, whoever that is. You sprawl amongst the lush grass and laugh until you are spent and light-headed and all you can do is wheeze into silence. You manage to turn your head and they are still here with you. 

 

“Leksa,” Costia says. 

 

_“Sha?”_

 

“Remember the wild strawberries?”

 

_“Sha.”_

 

“Oh no, not this again,” Anya says. “You two will be the death of me.”

 

 _“Shof op.”_ You would throw something at her head, if you had anything to throw. You settle for rolling your eyes.

 

Costia kicks a spray of water over Anya. She splutters, indignant and pretends to ignore you both.

 

You may never have been so happy. 

 

You push yourself up and sit cross legged, play with a blade of grass. It flexes and tickles between your fingers. Pain and loss and dying already feel like distant abstract things. This is real. They are real. You long to go to them, yet in your heart of hearts you are still half afraid that if you try they might vanish like shadows at sundown. Could you let yourself believe that if this is all you are ever given it would be enough? It is more than you deserve.

 

Costia’s gaze is fixed on you, quiet, intimate. It is almost like being held, even though she sits on the opposite bank of the river. She’s waiting.

 

“You had been sad, the day before,” you begin, “and you would not tell me why. You never did.”

 

Costia nods. “There will be time, _ai hodnes_.”

 

“When I left the stables and went to my lessons all I could think was that I wanted to make you happy again, somehow. That even though I could never be what I...what I wished to be for you, I could give you that. But I had no idea what to do.”

 

“Useless, lovesick pup,” Anya grumbles.

 

Costia grins. Your whole body floods with warmth until you have to look away; stare past her and into the distance where, behind her, a great forest grows. The trees blaze green with summer.

 

“I couldn’t sleep that night for wondering. Then I remembered you loved - love - the wild strawberries that grow near the Blackwood Ridge, you said they were the sweetest. You’d had no chance to indulge that summer, so I decided I would go hunting for you.”

 

You are interrupted by a groaning sound that Anya turns into an exaggerated cough, when you and Costia both cut your eyes at her. “Swallowed a bug,” she says, and returns to stalking fish, water swirling around her long lean legs. You have missed her terribly.

 

There is movement now at the edge of the trees, too far off to make out, perhaps some deer venturing into the open to feed. 

 

“Then what happened?” Costia asks, even though she knows as well as you. 

 

“I snuck out of the tower. I doubt I had ever been so bold in my life.” You shake your head, a little embarrassed. “I always learn every way in and out of every room, and all the secret ways too. It was easy enough to avoid being caught. Nobody knew I knew.” 

 

“That’s what you thought.” Anya’s smile is small but genuine, softening the hard planes of her face.

 

Of course Anya knew. And you had so little to hold onto back then, she chose to let you have your secrets. Your own smile contains the gratitude she would never accept in words. She acknowledges it with a barely perceptible nod.

 

You breathe deep, enjoying the scents of meadow flowers and clear water, and let out a sigh. “Anyway, I got a little worried when I came to the East Gate. It suddenly occurred to me the guards might not let me through. But it was young Izik on duty with Clam. I spun them something vague about being on urgent Nightblood business, and they let me pass. It wasn’t exactly a lie. There were still a few hours left before dawn, but the moon was almost full and I know the path so well I could follow it blind anyway. It was an hour’s hard walking to the bottom of the ridge and it wasn’t until I got there - good and tired and sweating - that I realised I’d forgotten to bring a bag with me.” You let a quiet chuckle escape, shrug. “So naturally I did the only sensible thing I could do. I stuffed my pockets with fruit. I may even have stuffed some in my shirt - in retrospect not a good plan - and I hurried back to present you with my gift.”

 

Now you can tell the shapes emerging at the edge of the trees are people. They are growing closer. Familiar shapes. Familiar walks. _Oh keryon._ How you long to go to them.

 

Costia kicks up her feet, her delight palpable, the spray of water sparkling through the sunlight. “You came rapping on my window-shutters at the crack of dawn, so eager I was afraid you would wake _nontu._ When I let you in the scent of strawberries was strong enough I thought I would faint, and oh, Leksa, when I finally managed to light the lamp…”

 

“I recall you laughing, a lot.”

 

“ _Sha._ You were so quiet and intense and...sticky. Standing there all stained with red juice and so damned please with yourself. Like the kitchen cat bringing me a mouse. We ate delicious, squishy wild strawberries, sitting on the floor of my room while the sun came up. And then -”

 

“-you kissed me.”

 

“And you kissed me back.”

 

“It was the first time.”

 

You both fall silent. There are no more words. Only each other. 

 

You yearn for her, to lose yourself in her as you used to. It is a pleasure poised on the edge of pain.

 

Anya leans on her fishing spear, quiet, almost respectful, and stares into the ever-flowing water. Eventually she says. “I caught you slinking back before breakfast and thrashed your hide for being so stupid. Although not as hard as I should have.”

 

 _“Mochof,”_ you tell her. And you mean it. 

 

The approaching figures are close enough to see clearly now. You get to your feet - slow, slow as if any sudden movement may startle them into flight. You cannot lose them again. In the forefront is Gustus, the spirit of a great bear wearing the shape of a kind, protective man. His presence eases a grief in you, guarded like a blade run into your own chest. Around him your Nightblood kindred saunter and amble and dance. Children, just children. You have carried the memory of each of them tattooed on your skin for so long, the burden of their deaths. Now they are smiling and waving in greeting. Beyond them a graceful slender woman is weaving through the meadow, her eyes fixed only on you - _nomon_? A dark-bearded young man races to join her, they link hands, easy and laughing. _Nontu_?

 

The pull to cross the river is overwhelming. Stronger than anything you have ever felt. Yet something holds you back. You sink down, cling, at war with yourself, your fingers digging through grass tufts and into the soft sandy soil of the bank. You made vows, sacred promises, and even now they call on you; beyond flesh and blood, they are seared into your spirit. The need to serve your people, to protect your Nightbloods, to save your _kongeda._ And Clarke - you ache for her, grieve for everything you yearned to be for her; for the way she glowed in the late afternoon sunlight. You care, you struggle, you fight not because you are Heda but because it is your nature to do so. But even you cannot fight death. True peace and an end to your endless loneliness are near, and you are tired.

 

“Can I touch you, Cos?”

 

 _“Sha, niron.”_ Costia tells you.

 

You yank off your boots, slip into the river and begin to wade across. The cool water swirls and eddies, welcoming you at last. At last. At last...

 

Costia’s face is sad. “But if you do -”

 

“- if you come any further,” Anya says.

 

“You will never be able to return.” Costia stops paddling, playfulness forgotten. She swings her legs out of the water and rises to her feet, letting her long skirts fall to cover her.

 

“I cannot return,” you say, puzzled by the sudden change. You wade on, more determined than ever, but something halts you midstream. Water swirling heavy around your waist. A strange and powerful current grips you. You do not understand. You start to be afraid.

 

You want to go to them but you are frozen in place; rounded pebbles under your feet, silt between your toes. You reach out your hands as far as you can, desperate fingers stretched towards them as a drowning person reaches for the surface. They watch you with sad knowing eyes. 

 

The others have almost reached the bank now. _Nomon_ is there. You begin to struggle even harder against this inertia. It’s as hopeless as trying to run in a dream. A familiar sharp-hot prickle along the nape of your neck. Then a tugging and thudding in your chest. Pain. Bruising, shattering, crushing pain. Your heart is breaking behind your ribs. Your heart is dying in a clenched fist.

 

_Tombom tombom._

_There is no pain, no death among the dead._

_Tombom tombom._

_No. Please no._

 

“It seems your fight is not over after all, _goufa,_ ” Anya says with a wry smile.

 

“No. No, wait,” you plead. They are all turning from you, your beloved dead, turning away and fading fast. They are leaving you. Again. You could sob and rage like a helpless child at the unfairness of it. “What should I do?” you cry out.

 

Anya pauses - water still dripping from her clothes and hair - speaks over her shoulder. _“Ste yuj, strik Heda.”_

 

Costia stands silent, the only one still facing you, her arms hanging by her sides, palms open. She is so beautiful it’s almost blinding.

 

“Costia, please!”

 

“Live,” Costia tells you, her voice nothing more than a whisper in your dazed mind. “Just live.”

 

You summon all your strength, make a frantic lunge forwards and now you are falling. You fall through choking water, lungs screaming until your eyes go dark. Fall through open sky, past the sharp scent of fresh green leaves and rough drag of bark. You reach out, try to grasp, to save yourself, but there is a jagged place where a small branch has broken, it catches you, scrapes cruel and sharp along the underside of your arm. 

 

You are bleeding before you hit the ground.

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I have researched to the best of my abilities, please accept my apologies for any errors.
> 
> Becca's comment on the taste, smell and colour of our galaxy is odd but scientifically accurate. Google it and be amused :)
> 
> Trigedasleng translations:
> 
> Maunon = Mountain men  
> jus drein jus daun = blood must have blood  
> emo gonplei ste odon = their fight is over  
> Pramheda = the First Commander  
> praimfaya = the nuclear holocaust  
> strikon = little one  
> ait, nomon = alright, mother  
> sha = yes  
> reshop, goufa = goodnight, child  
> reshop, ai tombom = goodnight, my heart  
> snacha = raccoon  
> hei, ai hodnes = hello, my love  
> niron = loved one  
> joken = fucking  
> shof op = be quiet  
> keryon = soul, spirit  
> nontu = father  
> mochof = thank you  
> kongeda = coalition, alliance  
> tombom = heart  
> ste yuj, strik Heda = be strong, little Commander


End file.
